


You can walk with me

by euromagpie



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: DARA DESERVED TO BE ADOPTED TOO, Gen, NO SHIPPING BETWEEN JASKIER AND DARA YOU FREAKS, bi jaskier, chosen family, finally proofread and with spelling mistakes fixed, i love my elf boy, jaskier's a little bit in love with geralt even a non shippy fic, original witcher oc, post episode 6, wow much emotion such healthy communication, written all in one go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22267810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: Jaskier's travelling on his own and he's okay with that, he really is, and the fact that he kind of adopted the first lost child he came across doesn't mean anything, honestly.
Comments: 50
Kudos: 361





	You can walk with me

Jaskier plucked listlessly on the strings of his lute. The autumn air was beginning to crisp as the night started to fall. He’d hoped to reach the next village before the darkness came, but he’d never claimed to be good at planning. So, with a shrug, he’d left the road for the dense greenery further into the forest at the side; travelling with the Witcher had certainly taken the sting out of camping outside. Still, there was a distinct helplessness that came with travelling alone. Normally he would have walked along whatever caravan was winding its way around the countryside, having no timetable for the minute, but with the leaves bronzing and the sky greying, fewer and fewer travelling groups were making their ways around. Then of course, there were the bandits and ruffians that traversed the roads looking for easy prey – if forced to stop overnight, these days you had less of a chance of being torn apart by wolves than gutted by blaggards, so it was seen as generally more favourable to take yourself off the road for your sleep.

He'd been lucky to find a semi-trampled clearing, the charred spots around the small area suggesting it had been used by camping parties before. Jaskier had set his stuff up, had a dinner of cheese, bread and jerky, and tried to sleep.

Tried being the operative word here.

After lying around for what seemed like hours, he’d given up for the time being, seating himself with his back against a tree and trying to hammer out some lyrics for a new song.

“From dust we’re born, to dust we go,

And in this time we reap, we sow..”

He shook his head and sighed.

He’d lost his spark somewhere along his travels. Jaskier didn’t care to speculate at what exact point his spark had abandoned him (it definitely wasn’t at the exact moment that his muse did). His new songs were too maudlin or too tone deaf. His old songs didn’t arouse the passion they did before. He- _he, Jaskier the Witcher’s Bard_ \- had been reduced to scrounging for tales from passing knights and mercenaries, no doubt hideously exaggerated and plumped up. He had no issue with exaggerated stories, mind you, as long as it was _Jaskier_ doing the exaggerating. He was the one qualified for it after all.

He tried again.

“Melitele, oh shining brow,

Did guide me thence where I did go,

Mother, Maiden, Crone and all,

Stoked the fires in my soul-“

He frowned.

“All and soul? That’s never going to work. You’re an idiot, Jaskier, that’s the slantiest rhyme you’ve slanted in a while.” He muttered into the leaves above. With a sad rustle, one detached and twirled its way onto his head. He plucked it from his hair, shaking it out of his eyes.

Over the last few years, he’d let his hair grow out until it brushed his shoulders. For a time, he’d tried to pair it with what he’d thought was quite a dashing beard, but after the third lass couldn’t keep her laughter quiet in bed he’d made the executive decision for his loins to get rid of it. The careful trimming and grooming was too much upkeep for the road anyway.

He plucked another string and was about to try perhaps a more light-hearted ditty, when from the nearby bushes came a rustling sound.

Jaskier froze, and the rustling stopped. Careful to keep his eye on the bushes, he let his right hand casually land at his side, moving towards the small, simple dagger her kept tucked into the back of his breeches.

The leaves on the bushes trembled.

“I know you’re there,” Jaskier called to the bushes; he wasn’t sure if he was hoping it was man or monster, either of which could probably easily dispatch him with little effort, “come out where I can see you!”.

There was a pause where he thought perhaps whatever was nearby had left, scared away by his noise.

Instead, slowly, tentatively, what emerged from the underbrush, was a child. He looked to be around perhaps 13 or 14, Jaskier never having been good at guessing ages, with dark skin and clothes that looked to have once been tended for with care, but were now ragged and stained.

Jaskier sighed and pulled his hand away from his dagger, holding it out non-threateningly. The child was staring at him, crouched, ready to flee.

“Hello.” Jaskier smiled lightly.

The child’s eyes flickered from his face to his lute.

“Where did you get that?” The boy asked.

“This?” Jaskier gave a short strum on the strings, “It was given to me, years ago, by an elf.”

The boy wrinkled his nose.

“It was _given_ to you?” He repeated, doubt colouring his tone.

Jaskier nodded, taking no offense to his tone. The boy had taken a subconscious step forward to the music.

“Have you ever heard of Filavandrel of the Silver Towers?” He asked him.

The boy nodded

Jaskier continued, fingers playing a small folk-tune he remembered from his childhood as he spoke.

“A friend and I ran into him over a decade ago. It was an unpleasant meeting, I’ll give you that, but in the end he ordered us released and even gave me this lute to replace the one…oh what was her name…”

He thought for a second, absently humming, trying to cast his mind back those years.

“Ah! Toruviel I believe. Very intense woman, don’t want to mess with her. She got a little exited, smashed my poor lute I’d had since my trainee days, all into bits. Still, I got this beauty and she still sings so wonderfully after all this time and the bad adventures she’s had to endure.” Jaskier gave the lute’s base a fond pat.

The boy keeps staring as the bard’s fingers moved over the strings.

Jaskier cocked his head.

“Do you play?”

“…no.” The boy replied.

A brief moment.

“Would you like to?” Jaskier asked.

The boy shook his head, but even as he did, as though hypnotised, he moved even closer.

Jaskier held out the lute by her neck, giving a good bit of distance between him and the skittish child. Eventually, the boy’s dark hand reached out, and after a brief moment where he suspiciously eyed Jaskier, snatched it, going to sit over on the other side of the clearing. He obviously didn’t know what he was doing as he held it awkwardly in his lap – it was too big for him anyway, having been made with a grown humanoid in mind. Small fingers strummed it clumsily, a soft mess of notes drifting into the still air.

Jaskier watched him, curious.

“How does it feel?”

He realises the boy’s breath had hitched and his eyes were wet as he responded.

“It feel like home.” He said, so quietly.

As is traditional, Jaskier speaks without his words passing through his brain first.

“Ah, so you must be an elf?”

As soon he spoke he realised he’d done wrong. The boy tensed immediately, scrabbling up and looking as though he were about to bold off into the woods (with _Jaskier’s_ sexy lute, but that’s what it is).

“Wait, please; I mean you no harm, child. I have only heard tale of the terror Cintra wreaked upon your people and tales are so often softer than reality that I cannot imagine the true horrors you have experienced. But be assured, here you don’t need to be scared. Won’t you stay a while?” Jaskier asked.

He wasn’t exactly sure why he wanted the boy to so desperately stay – whether it was his own loneliness, his need to keep his Lady Lute in sight, or the heartache that came with seeing such a young creature so afraid of a simple man such as him, or a mixture of all three; regardless, he didn’t want the stranger to run off.

Something he said seemed to have given the boy pause for thought, because instead of vanishing, he stayed where he stood, chest still heaving and eyes wide, watching for any wrong move. Jaskier tried to make himself look as harmless as possible, which, with his silken doublets and scar-less skin, wasn’t difficult at all.

Weariness ever-present, the boy slowly made to sit down again, still on the other side of the clearing.

Jaskier cleared his throat.

“Are you hungry?”

The boy nodded.

Careful not to move too fast, Jaskier pulled his food pouch from his bag, tossing the cheese and bread over to him. He couldn’t remember if elves ate meat of if that was another fairytale he’d picked up along the way. Either way, with only a moment of hesitation, the boy fell on the food, trying to swallow if down as quickly as possible.

Jaskier gave him a moment and hummed the Fishmonger’s refrain. _That one was still a good one,_ he thought to himself, _very catchy_.

“Will you tell me your name?” Jaskier asked, eventually, as the boy slowed down, chewing with more deliberateness and less like he was trying to drown in yeast, “Mine is Julian Alfred Pancratz, but I usually just go by Jaskier. It’s a Radanian dialect word for ‘dandelion’.” He added.

The boy snorted.

“I know. I’m not an idiot.” He said through a mouthful of cheese, “why aren’t you blond?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier asked, taken aback by the question.

The boy swallowed.

“I said, ‘why aren’t you blond?’. Wouldn’t that make more sense with ‘dandelion’ then?”

Jaskier chuckled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

“There isn’t really a reason for it I guess. I just like dandelions.” He shrugged.

The boy looked at him considering.

“I’m Dara.” He said eventually, like he was letting a secret off his chest.

“Grandest of pleasures to meet you, young Dara.” Jaskier said in an exaggerated manner, and Dara snorted into his bread.

There was a moment of comfortable silence between the two, when Jaskier realised he was squinting; night had well and truly fallen. He frowned at the thought of the teenager travelling alone at night.

“Say, Dara, do you have anywhere to go?” He asked.

Dara narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, before shaking his head.

“Well…” Jaskier started, wary of scaring the boy off, “I am no fighter, but I am good company, and my songs bring in enough for food and shelter most nights. Come sleep by the fire tonight and I’ll walk with you to the nearest village. No child should be wandering on their own like this.”

Dara seemed to tense up even more.

“I have a knife.” He warned.

Jaskier nodded.

“That’s good. Useful things to have knives, good for cutting cheese in particular.” He rambled. God he missed _good_ cheese, the kind that truly stinks worse than a witcher’s sock. Instead he’d had to make do with the simple kind, who’s ingredients are better not considered.

Dara tilted his head as he looked at him.

“…You can walk with me.” He said eventually.

Jaskier just smiled.

*

The night passed without adventure, thankfully. Jaskier could tell Dara had difficulty relaxing enough to sleep besides a stranger, and he could sympathise. He stayed as still as he could, and eventually the boy lost the fight against tiredness. When he woke in the morning in one piece, it seemed Dara started to lower his defences a little around the poet (Jaskier wasn’t sure how he felt about it; he would almost rather Dara stayed suspicious. Not everyone was as harmless as him).

The air was crisp with the threat of rain on the horizon as they began their long walk. Idle talk mixed with Jaskier rotating through his vast variety of ditties and ballads. Without conscious thought, he returned to Her Sweet Kiss, as he always seemed to these days. The coming of the cold always brought with it thoughts of winter, and the witchers returning to Kaer Mohren (and Geralt, with his hair like frost and his eyes like the winter sun, the gold against the white).

His refrain trailed off into the air.

“The song you sang…it was sad.” Dara suddenly piped up.

Jaskier hummed.

“Well it was written about my greatest heartbreak, so I suppose it had to be.”

“…Does it still hurt?”

“Every day.” Jaskier confirmed.

“But then why are you happy?” Dara finally exploded. It seemed to have weighed heavily on him for some time.

Jaskier took a moment to think about it.

“Because the sun shines.”

Dara seemed unhappy with that answer, so Jaskier sighed.

“You know, the source of my heartbreak once said, not directly to me, mind, ‘Your mother only gives birth to you once, and only once will you die’ – or something to that effect, and in that coarse way of his, he was right. Whether the years we have ahead of us are 80 or 400 or just tomorrow, to squander the time we have on this earth wallowing in our tears and sorrow is a great crime, when there’s always something to be happy about.”

Beside him, Dara stared down at the road, kicking the dust up with his feet. A wagon rumbled by, the driver tipping his broad-brimmed straw hat at the pair as he rattled on by. Eventually, Dara raised a hand, laying it over his heart.

“I feel like I can’t see it.”

Jaskier said nothing, letting the boy speak his hurt out.

“Even when I smile, it’s empty. I feel like I’ll never be happy again.”

His leather shoes sent a small stone skittering off into the dying grass. Jaskier pursed his lips.

“I know it can feel that way. It feels like you’ll be hollow forever, and the sadness of the day can only be matched by the fear of the nightmares. But there is _something_ out there for you, you know, whether it’s kissing girls – or boys -, singing, painting; hell, for a certain grumpy git, happiness is a faithful mare and a hot bath in a crummy inn. It doesn’t have to be something grand and profound; sometimes the everyday treasures are the easiest to cling to.”

As he spoke, the poet suddenly ducked off the path, bent low to where the wild grass merged into underbrush butting up against deep forest. He rummaged for a moment before popping back up.

He placed something in Dara’s free hand.

“There. See?” He said with a smile.

Uncertain, Dara opened his hand. In his palm lay a small flower, its four petals gently curled and with a bright yellow simplicity. Jaskier watched him.

“Flowers make me happy. Music makes me happy. Seeing others enjoy my work makes me happy. You’ll find something. Eventually.” Jaskier assured him, before turning back to watch the ever-distant horizon. He slung his lute back around to his front, and absently started strumming.

Carefully, gently, Dara slid the buttercup behind his ear, a small smile on his face.

*

At noon a minor drizzle passed by - not enough to drench, but enough to render wool and linens cold and clinging. Jaskier saw Dara shivering in his shirt. He wished he had a thick cloak like Geralt had often lent him with a disgruntled sigh. All he had was his own silken doublet, which was wet itself. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out his bedroll blanket, offering it silently to the boy.

Dara hesitated only shortly, before gladly pulling it around his shoulders and hunching down.

“Come on, we’ll light a fire.” Jaskier said, to which Dara nodded, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

The bard and the elf moved off the road, away from the danger of being run over by carts or horses. Jaskier had resigned himself to spending a lot of his time in trampled bits of forest at this point.

He looked around for wood for the fire, only finding damp twigs instead. He groaned.

“You stay here, I’ll go find some wood deeper in the forest. The leaves should have kept _something_ dry.” He told Dara. Instead of following his instructions, Dara stood abruptly.

“I’ll come with you.” He said.

Jaskier frowned.

“It’s dangerous in the woods, there’s wild animals and, and- stuff.” He finished lamely.

Dara looked unimpressed.

“What, and _you’re_ going to fight off wolves and bears?”

Jaskier flushed.

“Just- just do as I say, okay? Umm, here.” He pulled his satchel and lute off, handing them over to Dara.

“Can you look after these? I don’t want to snag or lose them in the trees.”

It was a weak reasoning, and Dara looked completely unconvinced, but silently accepted them. With one last eyeroll at Jaskier, Dara sat back down, clutching the bits to his chest, covering everything with the dry blanket against the chilling wind.

“Right…right. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

*

As he wandered through the trees, picking up the occasional dry log, Jaskier wondered if this was what Geralt had felt like when the bard refused to stay behind with Roach during the battles. _Probably not_ , he considered, discarding a branch too sodden to be used, _Dara seems like he’s got a bit more of a self-preservation instinct than me. Plus, he doesn’t seem the kind to attract trouble-_

Jaskier scowled, beginning to mutter to himself as he walked.

“I _don’t_ attract trouble. I _don’t_. I was doing perfectly fine before meeting Geralt of Rivia, thank you. And, and, nobody _forced_ you to call the Law of Surprise, witcher, I didn’t hold a _knife_ to your throat and say ‘call the Law of Surprise which doesn’t ever seem to result in anything other than accidental child acquisition’ have you never heard the tales-“

A shrill screech echoed through the forest, causing Jaskier to drop the wood.

In the stillness that followed, Jaskier only had one though; _Oh no, this feels very familiar_.

His instinct for the approach of mortal peril was correct, as within second the wood was filled the thunderous sound of a large object trying to navigate rapidly through a dense forest - that is to say, the cacophonous snap of tree trunks.

Before Jaskier could do more than take one step back, from the black depths of the forest emerged the head of an eagle, the body of a lion, and – on the receiving end of all of Jaskier’s alarmed attention - huge talons that rent the earth in explosive thrusts. The griffin gave another screech, its sudden appearance causing Jaskier to misstep, tripping over a large root and falling on his back, painfully knocking his head on a stone that just _had_ to be in the right place for it.

Because that’s just Jaskier’s luck, of course.

He scrambled back in terror as the griffin reared up, flapping one massive wing, ridding the surrounding trees of their thick branches with a snap and a crack. The other wing dragged limp on the floor, obviously injured.

The griffin was about to descend on Jaskier when the cause of the injury came thundering by.

For a second, Jaskier’s traitorous heart jumped, seeing the two scabbards on the back of the rider, one sword in its sheath, one in the hand. The man’s great brown stallion dashed between the human and the monster, rearing up, as the rider made a one-handed sign in the air.

A powerful wind like a hurricane burst through the forest, sending the griffin stumbling back. It didn’t take long to recover though, and Jaskier instinctually rolled out of the way as it spewed a great heave of acid over the two figures.

“Watch ou-“ He yelled.

Of course, he needn’t have worried; an invisible shield seemed to have appeared before the witcher, bouncing the acid back into the various trees where it took blistering chunks out of the bark. The witcher swiftly swung his long sword, landing a scarlet, deep gash into the side of its neck. The griffin screeched, bucking wildly, shaking its head this way and that, snapping its ferocious beak as though trying to bite the rider in half. Blood spewed against the brown earth underfoot.

“Jaskier!” A rustle came from behind him, “I heard a screech. Are you alri-“

Jaskier looked back in terror as Dara appeared, yelping when confronted with the happenings.

“Get back!” The bard ordered.

But the distraction proved fortuitous for them; as the griffin jerked its head around to fix its beady eye on the newcomer, the witcher took the opportunity for one last overhead swing-

Down came the blade as, in one fell sweep, it separated eagle head from lion shoulders.

A torrent of blood marked his victory.

*

The still of the forest seemed almost unnatural following the chaos. Jaskier’s chest heaved with adrenaline, and where he was still looking out for Dara, he could see the boy trembling, his dark skin having paled. The witcher groaned, yanking his sword out of the mess of gore and tendons, wiping it on a patch of nearby moss.

As he approached, Jaskier’s heart slumped.

Of course it wasn’t Geralt. Jaskier _knew_ Geralt wasn’t the only witcher around, of course not, but in a way he thought he’d never meet any other ones; witchers were known to be rare, and with the many occasions fate had thrown the bard and the White Wolf together, he had simply assumed Geralt would be the only witcher for him, as it were.

This witcher that dismounted was leaner than Geralt, his red hair shaved down to the skin at the sides of his head. A grid of scars ( _left by the clawing hands of a ghoul_ , Jaskier thought _, judging by the side and raggedness_ ) decorated his temple as his yellow eyes stared down on the bard on the ground. Jaskier was so used to the giant, metal-studded pauldrons of his friend that he was almost surprised to see this witcher dressed in lighter, green-tinted armour. A round medallion with the profile of an eagle’s head hung on his chest.

“You alright?” His voice was deep like Geralt’s though.

Jaskier flushed, scrambling up. He felt Dara rush up to him. The boy stared at the creature.

“What _is_ that?”

Jaskier answered before the witcher could open his mouth.

“A griffin. Archgriffin, actually – did you see the acid it spewed from its mouth?”

The witcher looked at Jaskier with an impressed eye.

“You know your griffins.”

Jaskier shrugged. You could only spend so many years in the company of a witcher without compiling your own mental bestiary of monsters.

“Thank you for saving me - well, us. Jaskier, bard extraordinaire at your service.” He held out his hand, half-expecting the witcher to just stare him down with Geralt’s unimpressed gaze.

Instead, his mouth twisted into a smile, and a large hand gripped his forearm.

“Think nothing of it. I should never have let the creature get so far out – I had it cornered back in Bozlaw, but the acid took me by surprise.” He shook his head as he released the bard’s arm, “Ahhh I have so far to ride now to collect my coin.”

Jaskier frowned.

“Forgive my curiosity, Master Witcher-

“Verun, please. Verun Iskra.”

“-Master Verun, but your medallion is from the Griffin School no? You’re a long way from home.”

Full of curiosity, after his and Geralt’s first adventure together, Jaskier had gone and absorbed whatever information about witchers he could get his hands on. Many stories of them were exaggerated, some outright lies, but Jaskier was well trained in reading people and knowing when they were telling the truth; so it came that he found himself buying a small battered journal, written nearly a century previously, from a vendor in Novigrad, said to detail encounters with different witchers over the author’s life.

One chapter described the encounter with a Griffin witcher in the mountains of Kovir. He had been brusque, but skilled like his fellows in magic, dispatching a Nighthag before telling the author he was returning to Kaer Seren, the keep on the sea.

Kaer Seren was far from Ellander where they found themselves now. True, Geralt had once brought up moving his Path even further south to find more contracts, but from what Jaskier heard, the Kovir mountains were still filled with monsters aplenty.

Verun scratched his head.

“Not just a pretty face and knowledge of griffins, I see.” He laughed, “When I heard tell of a griffin here, I travelled from Talgar specifically for it. Our school is renowned for it, so I figured it would make for a good tale.”

“A good tale is worth many hardships.” Jaskier agreed.

Dara seemed to have got bored of their talk and moved to inspect the severed head of the griffin with the kind of morbid curiosity so deeply ingrained in children.

“Still, you say think nothing of it, but I _am_ grateful.” Jaskier said. He thought of Geralt and the many times he didn’t get sufficient thanks for his deeds.

Verun looked at Jaskier, then back at Dara, then back at Jaskier. He took a step closer.

“Good looking man like you; how grateful exactly might you be?” He asked, voice a low murmur, and _oh_ , Jaskier knows _that_ look.

It’s a pity; had the man asked a few years ago, Jaskier would have jumped at the chance of an unattached roll in the hay with a witcher; who wouldn’t? But now, the situation stung, so familiar, yet so alien that he couldn’t separate it from his fantasies and memories. In the morning, it would surely hurt even more.

Eyes filled with a bit of regret, he took a step back.

“Not that I’m not flattered, Verun, but for now, I’m only a reasonable amount grateful.” He joked, voice thick, “I have no coin to pay you, but I have some excellent cured meat, straight from Gulet.”

Verun just shrugged.

“Worth a try. But keep you provisions, Horse carries more than enough for me.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“You named your horse, ‘Horse’?”

“I go through _many_ horses.”

Suddenly Dara called from behind them.

“What are you gonna do with the head?”

Verun turned to him.

“I’m going to take it back to Bozlaw and hope the stupid governor will still give me my coin.” He grumbled, suddenly in a bad mood at the thought. Jaskier had seen Geralt cheated out of his rightful pay enough times to sympathise.

Dara seemed confused.

“Why wouldn’t they pay you?”

Verun looked at him, startled, as though the idea that people should trust or honour deals with a witcher was foreign to him.

“Think nothing of it. You’ll be a good man one day, kid.” He said, and Dara scowled.

“Don’t call me kid.”

Verun reached to the griffin, and, with a sharp yank, pulled out two feathers. He gave one to Dara, then turned to Jaskier. He slid the feather into Jaskier’s hair with a wink.

“To remember our adventure by. And me.”

Jaskier flushed.

With a small snort, Verun hefted the griffin’s giant head, tied it to Horse’s saddle and clambered onto its back. Horse snorted.

“Maybe we’ll meet again, _Jaskier_.”

And then, he was gone.

Dara walked up beside Jaskier, turning the feather in his hands.

“Are _all_ witchers that weird?”

Jaskier let out a short laugh.

“Oh no, Dara. He was a _sane_ one.”

*

They reached the small town of Elwira in a few days. They had spent another night beneath the sky, and the other in the barn of a welcoming homestead, where Jaskier swapped shelter from the storm for a preview of his new tune, ‘Nehaleni’s Night’, keeping Dara away from the farmer and his wife’s curious gazes. The boy had pulled his cap further down over his ears.

The weather had cleared, and Elwira’s market was in full swing. Beside him, Jaskier could feel Dara tense, subconsciously moving closer to the bard. Jaskier had been in bigger towns of course, packed shoulder to shoulder with seemingly every builder, painter and sex worker in Redania, but then, _he_ wasn’t in danger of being beaten for the shape of his ears. He could only imagine how stressful this was for Dara.

Still, one needed the company of other sentient creatures, or one would simply go mad.

“I should have stayed with the dryads.” He heard Dara mutter.

“Hmm?” Jaskier made an inquiring noise as his excited fingers stroked over a roll of intricately knotted silk thread trim. He could do something _fancy_ with this.

“I said I should have stayed with the dryads. In Brokilon forest. They accepted me for who I am.” He said.

Attention drawn away from the trim, Jaskier looked down at Dara in surprise.

“Ah, but then you wouldn’t have met _me_.” He joked.

He felt a happy warmth bloom in his chest as finally, _finally_ , a comfortable smile graced Dara’s face.

“That’s true.” The boy said.

Before Jaskier could say anything more, Dara’s eyes fixed on something in the distance and his face lit up. He detached himself from Jaskier’s side excitedly and half-ran over to a stall selling mushrooms. Jaskier followed behind him casually, eyes flickering from colourful stall to colourful stall. Keeping one eye on Dara, who was now chattering with the stall owner over all the different kinds of mushrooms (Jaskier had gone off them after the third time he tried foraging, only to have his hard work thrown away after Geralt declared most of his ‘catch’ poisonous. How was he supposed to know? All mushrooms looked the same to the bard), Jaskier’s eye was caught by a stall selling small, empty books, only a little bigger than his hand, fingers spread, and sticks of charcoal.

Jaskier thought back to the days on the road, how Dara would draw in the dirt when they stopped or carve small pictures into tree trunks when he was bored and waiting for their food to cook.

Jaskier wandered over to the maker, still half-watching Dara, and scanned the prices. A quick tabulation of his current coin, and what he would probably make tonight in the local tavern, gave a tiny margin for error. On the other hand, Jaskier had gone hungry before, at the start of his bardic career, and a few times during his travels with Geralt, when the witcher was too injured to hunt, and the bard to worried to leave him. What was a few nights of tight food, anyway? At least he’d stay trim enough to fit into his favourite outfits.

Mind made up, and a quick transaction later, Jaskier had a fabric-wrapped package to his name.

For a moment, he turned and couldn’t find Dara, and his heartrate _spiked_ in panic. He whipped his head around in panic.

“Dar-!”

“What did you buy?” Dara popped up beside him, scaring the living daylights out of the poet.

“Bloody hell, Dara!” He gasped, one hand over his heart.

Dara frowned.

“You should have been paying more attention. What if I was a pickpocket?”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother.” Jaskier’s heart started to slow its thunder in his chest.

He looked down at Dara’s hands.

“You buy some mushrooms?”

Dara shook his head, a grin on his face.

“She gave some to me, because I was ‘such a _clever_ young man’.”

“You charmer.”

“I learnt from you.”

There was that _warmth_ again at Dara’s words. Gods, he’d only known the boy for a few days- he stopped the thought. He’d said he would walk with Dara to the nearest village. Here they were. Dara would probably want to leave now. Jaskier, after all, in his own words, wasn’t a fighter, he couldn’t protect the boy on the road. He wasn’t a good travelling companion, he _knew_ that, with his lack of horses, lack of cloak, inability to pick up firewood without running into a gods-damned _griffin_ -

“Jaskier?” Dara asked, sounding worried. In fact, he looked tense, like he was worried he’d said something wrong.

Jaskier realised his face must be doing something unhappy, so he shook his head, pulling the corners of his mouth up.

“Come, I think I spotted a reputable tavern off the main road. We’ll get some proper food there, and I’ll show you what a _real_ performance from me looks like. Give me a good audience and a lute and we’ll be living like kings, Dara, I tell you.”

Dara looked dubious.

“Now don’t give me that face. I’ve performed at royal courts, you know.”

Dara’s face suddenly brightened.

“Seriously? What was it like?”

“Well, once I was invited to perform at the court of the Queen of Lyria for the solstice and-“

As he chattered on and led Dara to the tavern he’d spotted, he let himself live in the moment, protecting that spark of warmth inside his chest, and wonder how long it would last before the cold of real life would extinguish it again.

*

Jaskier was _filled with elation_. His song was good- no, not just good, it was _great_! The crowd loved the polished version of ‘Nehaleni’s Night’, and his hat was filled with coins by the end of the night. He hadn’t had such a successful performance since the drago-

He faltered, feeling his mood start to drop.

 _No_ , he shook his head, determined, _I’m not going to let memories dampen the first great victory I’ve had in **years**_.

So he perked up, heartily throwing open the door to the two-bed room he and Dara were to share. The boy, tired, had gone up to the room hours ago. The way he sat up from the bed, rubbing his eyes, he’d probably been sleeping.

“Sorry, Dara, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“S’okay. I’ll be able to go back to sleep – this is a softest bed than I’ve slept in for months.” He said, sleepy but happy, hand patting the blankets of the bed. The room wasn’t even a good one, to be honest. It had been cheap, and it showed in the mattress stuffed with straw and the faded and patched blankets thrown over the top. But it was clean, and the fire in the pit warmed it, and Jaskier was glad he got the boy under a proper roof for at least one night.

He carefully set his lute against wall of the room, the coin-filled hat on the floor, and then flung himself bodily onto his bed, letting out a big breath. He was perhaps a little tipsy as well.

Dara glanced over to the coin filled hat and Jaskier saw the boy’s eyes widen, and his mouth gape.

“You made _that much in one night_?”

“Told you I was good.” Jaskier murmured.

He was starting to drift off into a doze, still fully clothed, when he saw the parcel from the market sitting on his bedside table, still fully wrapped. He sat up, wavering only a little as the world shifted around him.

“I nearly forgot, Dara, here.”

Jaskier tossed the parcel to the boy on the bed, and it was definitely more luck than skill that it landed on the mattress on not on Dara’s face. The boy looked from Jaskier to the parcel curiously, before thin fingers untied the knot, revealing the small book and two charcoal sticks in their own small cloth wrap. Dara stared at it, unspeaking.

The longer the silence went on, the more uncomfortable Jaskier became. It felt like he was starting to sober up. Had he done something wrong? Was Dara thinking of a way of rejecting the present? Did Dara think he was doing this so the boy would owe him, or to get something from him?

Jaskier started to feel a little sick.

He fumbled for words, any words to take it back or to make whatever he’d done right.

“Dara-“

“Why?” There was a strange quaver in the boy’s voice as he spoke, “Why did you buy this?”

“I just- I thought you might like drawing? Or writing. Or whatever. You don’t need to keep it if you don’t want to. I don’t want anything in return, it was just a thought, I-“

A small sound stopped Jaskier’s rambling. It was like a hiccup, followed by another, and another, and Jaskier realised Dara was _crying_. The bard panicked even more.

“Oh gods, I’m sorry, what-“

Dara had picked up the small, battered book and was clutching it to his chest. A tear rolled down his face and splashed on the cover.

“…do you like it?” Jaskier asked cautiously, confused about the signals he was getting.

Dara gave a small nod, and then a bigger one.

“I didn’t- I didn’t get to k-keep _anything_ when- when the Cintrans came, they destroyed e- _everything_.” He choked out, squeezing the book so tight the skin over his knuckles paled.

“Well,” Jaskier smiled at him gently, “that book’s yours now. Nobody’s taking it away from you.”

With a big sniff, Dara returned the small, shaky smile.

“Thank you.”

*

The next morning, Jaskier woke earlier than Dara. The boy was probably exhausted; when Jaskier cried, it sure took all the energy out of _him_. He didn’t miss the shape of the book poking out from beneath Dara’s pillow. With a smile, Jaskier slipped out of the room quietly, careful not to disturb him. Dara would know by the lute still leaning against the wall that he was coming back.

Yawning, and putting a hand to his head at the stabbing of semi-hangover, he stumbled down to the main floor of the bar, struggling to put on his soft-soled boots. He didn’t care to imagine what his hair looked like – best not to think about it.

As he stumbled over to bar, he ordered a small breakfast, letting the barmaid know that his companion would probably also be up soon, and hungry. She nodded, with the interested smile of someone who liked looking at pretty people but not touching, and directed him towards one of the free tables, telling him she would bring his food out soon.

He sat, rolling his shoulders with a groan. Jaskier squinted, enjoying the quiet bustle of the tavern and the noise of the waking town outside, the butter-yellow morning sun pouring through the windows, lighting up gently floating dust motes. He didn’t get to enjoy the peace for long though, before a long-haired figure sat at his table.

Jaskier opened one eye fully to observe him. He didn’t look familiar, with black hair and green eyes, and the scars of smallpox dotted on his jaw.

“Can I help you?” Jaskier murmured, allowing himself an iota of rudeness due to the early hour.

“Not me, but- ah, forgive me, my name is Izydor.”

“Jaskier.”

“Pleasure, Jaskier.” The man seemed to hesitate, “I couldn’t help but notice your companion-“

Jaskier tensed, immediately alert. He had travelled the world enough to know that it wasn’t just filled with noble witchers and cruel monsters. Sometimes humans could be the worst of the lot, in so many ways.

“What about him?” He snapped, tone guarded.

Izydor held up his hands, in peace, before leaning in close.

“He’s an elf.”

Jaskier’s blood ran cold. He knew the persecution elves faced, of course. For every elf that integrated into society, your heard tales of others, beaten in the street, arrested on false charges, spat on and degraded. If someone had it out for Dara because of his heritage, Jaskier didn’t have the fighting skills to protect him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, the skill of a bullshitter smoothing his voice into confidence.

“Please, Master Bard, I mean the boy no harm. On the contrary, that is why I am here. You, if I am not mistaken, are no elf.”

Jaskier inclined his head in agreement. He could have been a half- or quarter-elf, for sure, but he wasn’t going to verbally confirm or deny anything until the man got to his point.

“There is a couple, good friends of mine, who live on the outskirts of Elwira. They have a good house, big hearts, the both of them. They used to have a son, Leslaw, but he passed away three years ago from consumption. He would have been about the same age as your companion.”

“What’s your point?” Jaskier asked through gritted teeth, his courtly charms nowhere to be seen.

“Ilona and Filip fled the Great Cleansing years ago. They have been upstanding members of the society here since then. Everyone knows and respects them. But…their son has left a great hole in their lives.”

Jaskier was starting to see where this was going.

“The road is no place for a child, especially an elven one.” Izydor pressed him, “Would it not be a great kindness to give him a good, stable home, with people of his own race? He wouldn’t have to hide who he is here; he would be safe with Ilona and Filip. They would be so happy to have a child in their home again.”

Jaskier’s clenched jaw was starting to hurt.

His first instinct was to send the man away with a few angry, biting words. What, did he think he would just hand over a child in his protection to a group of strangers?

 _But aren’t you a stranger, really?_ A voice inside him spoke. And if Izydor was telling the truth, he couldn’t dispute any of his points. Dara _would_ be safe here, much better cared for and protected than if he was travelling with Jaskier. And who said he would want to travel any further with the bard anyway? They hadn’t discussed their future plans last night, but Jaskier remembered the terms they had embarked upon; ‘ _I’ll walk with you to the nearest village’_. Here they were.

Everyone left Jaskier in the end, whether it was bored lovers, angry Witchers, or a wandering elf boy he’d got himself attached to. At least this time, Jaskier could make sure Dara would walk out of his life into a bright, happy future. It would be for the best.

“…I want to meet them.”

Izydor smiled.

*

It was a few hours later when Jaskier returned, head full of words of love, and with a wrapped parcel of fresh honeybread in his hands. Ilona and Filip had been almost _too_ perfect. They had the eternally youthful faces of elves, of course, but grief and hard work had started carving crow’s feet into their visages. They had been excited when Izydor introduced Jaskier and told them why they had come; they had brought both into the warm, cosy interior of their cottage and made them tea with leaves from their garden. Then they had talked; the couple, Filip’s arm in a comforting guard around Ilona’s shoulders, spoke of their son, Leslaw, with grief-tinted love. They told Jaskier about how they had tried for children since then with little success, how they longed for their home to house a family of three again. Jaskier told them what little he really knew of Dara, the trauma he’d been through, his love for mushrooms and that he liked drawing. The hope and happiness on their faces had twisted Jaskier’s stomach into uncomfortable knots.

Dara would do well here.

Jaskier was a good, a _fantastic_ judge of character, had to be, really, in his profession, and all he saw from this couple was _hope_ , and such a strong desire to love someone in need of love. Who was he to deny Dara that?

He left them with no promises; he wouldn’t _make_ Dara do anything, but he would broach the subject with the boy.

When he returned to the tavern, the barmaid told him that Dara had been down for breakfast and then gone back upstairs, after she’d passed on the bard’s message to the boy that he’d be gone for a bit and to look after his lute.

Jaskier thanked her with a smile and a cheeky wink he didn’t really feel, and went upstairs, pushing open the door to find Dara sitting in bed, his knees drawn up and his little book open, drawing the charcoal round and round on the page.

Dara looked up to greet him with a smirk.

“Was he good?” He asked cheekily.

“’Scuse me?” Jaskier asked, confused.

“The barmaid told me you left with a man for a ‘private chat’,” he folded his fingers in quotation marks, “for a few hours.” At Jaskier’s silence, Dara rolled his eyes. “I know what sex is.”

Jaskier spluttered.

“Now wait just one minute! Just because I meet someone handsome doesn’t mean it’s going to end in sex, you know.”

“Whatever.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, sitting himself down on his own bed, facing the boy opposite. Dara looked at him with curious eyes.

“But I do have to talk to you about something. The man had a proposal, no, no, that’s not the right word. He told me about this couple, Ilona and Filip…”

Jaskier told Dara everything. He told him about the comforts of their house, and the warmth in their eyes. About how they could- _wanted to_ \- give him a home, a _real_ home. As he spoke, he didn’t notice Dara’s face shutting down, or his hands tightening on the edges of his book.

When Jaskier finished, the room descended into silence. Dara closed the book with a sharp snap, his eyes cold and his jaw tight.

“You could have just told me.” He snarled.

Jaskier was taken aback by the sudden change in his tone. He thought the boy would be happy. Unsure, at first, of course, but excited for the offer to be true. Instead, he watched as Dara shoved back the covers and started pulling on his boots.

“Dara, what-“

“It’s not fucking difficult to get rid of me. Just tell me to ‘fuck off’ and I’ll leave you alone. You didn’t have to do something this elaborate. Or was this all just to soothe your guilty ego?” The boy snapped.

Jaskier felt like he was punched in the gut. Because he recognised the anger and hurt in the boy’s eyes; he’d seen it in his own, the day after descending the dragon mountain, when he’d looked into the mirrored surface of the brook he was drinking from. The shakiness had worn off, and all he’d seen was his own face reflecting the abandonment of someone he’d thought was his friend. The rude awakening that revealed his previous happiness to have simply been a lie. It was the look of someone backstabbed and left to bleed out.

Jaskier did what Geralt hadn’t.

“Dara, please, wait, I’m sorry.”

The bard didn’t try to block the door, didn’t want to make the boy feel caged in, but he tried to make his regret show on his face.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” Dara snapped.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you. Believe me, I-, “ For the first time in a long, long time, the bard was struggling for words, “The last few days, I’ve been happier than I thought I would ever again be. I realised I’d missed travelling with someone, especially someone with good humour like you. You were a gift I didn’t expect. But…I thought I was being selfish.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. Opposite him, Dara was standing stock still. “I know I’m just a human. I’m getting older, but no more famous. I have no roots to settle, no connections to fall back on. I have really very little to give. I thought- you would surely rather want a family than, than _this_ , whatever this is.”

“You think too much.” Dara said after a small pause. He didn’t look like he was making a run for the door though. “I _have_ a family. The Cintrans killed them, but they’re still _here_ ,” he put a hand over his heart, “and nobody can replace them. What I don’t have is a friend. You looked after me. You told me that I could be happy again after everything. You brought me a sketchbook, for no reason other than I _might like it_. That means more to me than some honeybread and a warm room.”

Jaskier and Dara just looked at each other.

The bard spoke.

“Then, maybe, do you want to come with me to the next town?”

The moment stretched on, until eventually, Dara _grinned._

“You can walk with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier's like 'I've had Dara for three days and if anything happens to him I'll kill everyone on the Continent and then myself'


End file.
